when the world got strange
by witchfingers
Summary: Machu Picchu, the Inca fortress city in the middle of the jungle. Norway wonders why he's come, Denmark tries not to sulk, and Iceland enjoys some kickass summer vacations with his new friend Peru. Ah, the wonders of intercultural exchange, huh?


Characters: Norway, Denmark, Iceland, and Peru.

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_**when the world got strange**_

the air is moist and warm against his skin; like a sauna only it's not a sauna but a road that winds around the jungle, and it has been so, so long since the last time he's felt like this; and mind you he's not sure he likes it, all tropical and overwhelmingly fragrant, like a thousand of thousands exotic scents he cannot name and an explosion of caleidoscopic plantlife that for the life of him he cannot name,

and he's so exhausted, how high up the mountain are they anyway? 1000 mts? 2000? 3000? At what point did everything begin to shrink, what was that height over sea level again? It makes him dizzy to think of that alone, because he lives at sea level almost every day of his life, because his very own mountains are cold and whimsical and dangerously steep and silent,

and these are primordial woods after all, too, but of a different kind and the magic they exude is dangerous and aboriginal and raw, and he is tingling still inside for the thrill of seeing Machu Pichu for the first time after so many stories, but damn, he's starting to think it's not worth all this-

'Ooo, man, you look like shit-' he's told by that voice he sometimes likes but that today he loathes,

'shut up, idiot,' he answers displeased to hide his uneasiness, and scowls and wipes traitorous beads of sweat from his forehead, he just wasn't cut for this, okay? He's all unlike that damned blonde skipping down the pebble path ahead like he's on goddamned vacation,

like this is all a sport, like a football match or something (that may explain how the tall one isn't hacking his lungs off like he's been doing from the heat and the moist jungle air; sports-junkie the other one, damned be all Danes), and if he dares to comment on his state again, he might bring up Portugal, only to see him scowl and sulk, feelings hurt and pride nonexistent, for the rest of the way up.

But he probably won't say anything, because what if that damned jungle ends up consuming him? Someone will need to carry him back and he knows exactly who and he, today, would rather not risk that safety.

A bleak sun filters through the clouds of misty air that dim the sky, and everything is tinged reddish orangeish and very-too-much-too-tropical and his skin feels like it's melting away in salty drops to nourish the gigantic roots that protrude from the path that looks suspiciously too stable considering the wilderness and green exuberance around them. Too far up ahead his brother already is out of sight, and he idly concludes that his obnoxious southsoutheastern-neighbor only fell behind to make sure _he_ doesn't fall behind, and he's got mixed feelings about that.

And shouldn't his brother dear be faring the worst? He's the one that's always lived most up north.

Then again the kid's always flirted around with marine thermal water and carnation-red lava streams, when at home he's got snow and the fine sea air and the beautiful beautifully desolate Svalbard…

A ruckus of flock of vibrantly colored macaws flies over them. They make the Dane grin widely and yank his companion suddenly, brusquely, and while he copes with the ground suddenly spinning and the accompanying light-headedness, he morally should but honestly can't help looking up in awe at them horribly loud enchanting things, and a thought occurs to him, that maybe he should stop complaining about the weather and enjoy the world around,

but when it suddenly starts to rain an insistent, thin, cool tropical rain bringing down everything from the upper canopies of the jungle, he hisses, his t-shirt and shorts and sneakers all ruefully drenched (while his damned companion is laughing merrily); and thinks it can all go to the devil if it will, I'm not one for tropical rainforests.

He's not.

At some point or another they're reaching the small cottage (lovely he has to say, but rather too much too inaccessible) where they'll spend the night that night, and tomorrow before daybreak they'll begin their ascent to the fabled Incaic ruins. There are two men waiting for them in the clearing before the cottage already, one of them being his brother who's donned his stylish sunglasses and drinks something out of a tall, slim glass. It looks alcoholic and he does want some.

The Dane gets some first though, of course. 'Want some, Norge?'

He shrugs trying to look nonchalant, but no one will believe him, but he is still in moral need to try and look dignified. Although he is secretly thankful that he's not come alone, because seeing the way things are going, he'd be about to wreck international relations between Peru and Norway. If Iceland and Denmark weren't there to support-slash-taunt- him. It is good that Iceland wanted to come, even if he tried to look like he'd been forced to… And Denmark only wanted to disappear from Europe until the UEFA was over.

But they're here. Right. He's thankful. Now, back to being ice king Norge, their host looks at him slightly concerned.

'If you feel bad' (he means unwell, but he's always spoken Spanish so English is difficult for him), 'I have a plant that helps. Is called coca. Do you want to eat a bit?'

Iceland snickers when Norway eyes him warily. 'Apparently it's good to chew it when you're up high in the mountain,' his brother informs nonchalantly, 'But it doesn't taste the greatest…'

'Sure Norge wants some!' someone saves him the trouble of answering, although he himself doubts he wants to, 'And I want to try it too!' Reckless Dane. Loud, disrespectful thing.

Peru is a lean boy of age uncertain, bronze skin and sparkling eyes that come even more alive by contrast with his chullo, an Andean woven hat. He wears colorful pants and a loose cotton shirt, and is soon disappeared into the cottage, coming out with a handful of leaves only seconds later.

Iceland is looking on with infinite amusement as he sips his local alcoholic concoction, making friends already with a fiery macaw that's perched on his shoulder (a certain Puffin refused to cross the Equator down south, but no one, not even Iceland, really minded). Denmark munches on the leaves testingly for a while, and Norway is observing him closely, weighing his reaction to see if he will try them too.

He won't. Denmark's lips purse and he spits the bitter leaves with a disgusted gag onto the forests' ground. He wonders exactly where that leaves them standing in Peru's eyes, international-relationships-wise.

Peru only laughs heartily. 'The Europeans always like everything sweet,' he says, clasping a friendly hand on Iceland's t-shirt-clad shoulder. 'More chicha, Island?'

'Only if you join me, amigo,' Iceland answers with a smirk.

In the background Denmark is still trying to spit the taste of the coca out of his mouth, and Norway wipes the sweat off his face, inhales deeply the too fragrant jungle air, and wonders when the world got this strange.

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**A/N**

Pa' la próxima la llama, Lis! xD

I was browsing the website of the Norwegian Embassy in Argentina, and I read that a Nordic delegation went to visit Paraguay. And today I was studying Criminal Law, bored witless, and today it's too warm and moist for a winter day, and somehow this was born. I chose Peru because I was in the mood for a jungle adventure, and Peruvian people are cool =D And Incaic ruins kick ass.

Also, Denmark lost 2-3 to Portugal yesterday, so he's kind of getting away from Europe for the sake of his pride. Other than that, this story makes reference to no actual historical event whatsoever.

Slight glossary:

- coca: bad people make cocain out of that plant. But it's been used in the high Andes since forever as a remedy against altitude sickness.

- chicha: alcoholic drink, also from a large part of the Andean region. You don't want to know how it's done, so I'll be a good author and not tell you.

- chullo: it's the typical Andean hat, woven usually from alpaca or llama wool, with earflaps. Remember people in the altiplano live over 3000 mts over sealevel, and it's very cold up there.

Aaanyway. Hope you enjoyed. Oh, btw, if you ever want to write a character that speaks Spanish (like Antonio/Spain or any South American nation) do ask me and I'll do what I can to help you :)

Edit- (thanks DKONE for your timely correction ;)


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